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KK Chat is at 7pm Eastern on Sundays, except on the first Sunday of the month, when it is at 5pm Eastern to accommodate fans in the UK and Europe.

The projected dates for early chat in 2019 are June 2nd, July 7th, August 4th, September 8th (because September 1st is likely Dragon*Con weekend, in which case KK will not be available to chat), October 6th, November 3rd, and December 1st.

This devastating day on the third of September in the once promising third year of King Nygel Haldane's reign was a black mark on the calendar to stand in kinship with the many black days that had marred Gwynedd's history. On this day, the Deryni Pretender to Gwynedd’s Crown, Imre II Furstan-Festil, declared himself victor over the land he coveted. He would call himself King of Gwynedd, even though his rival was not yet known to have lived or died. The shouts of “Éljen a Király Imre!” [Long live King Imre] echoed through the Old Argoed valley, even as the last of the Haldane army remaining in the field lost all but the edges of the valley floor. In the stark rays of light between the western mountain ridges, the weary soldiers were pushed to the very brink of the strand of boulders in the river’s course where horses would lose their footing and men on foot would move too slow to avoid the few well-aimed arrows that Torenthi archers scavenged from the ground. For by this time no arrow remained in any man’s quiver, no matter which side of the battle he had fought on.

In the effort to survive, the remaining Gwynedd knights, of which there were but few, succeeded in clearing a way of escape, skirting around the deadly river bed back to the southern path. Horns called the final retreat. Those of the remnants of the Gwyneddan levies who could manage it turned and ran. Some did not make it, but their sacrifice slowed the triumphant army, allowing most to make their escape. As if the sun punished the knights for having lost the field, the very last rays of light blinded the eyes of the warriors who fought defending the road as the last able men scrambled to flee down it. Of those still on horseback, most were men of Carcashale, Derry, and Lendour, wounded and fatigued; nonetheless, they followed the orders of the three remaining earls on the field and held out until the last of Gwynedd’s foot soldiers were away. Then after the finale horn blast, knowing defeat, Muir called his men to turn and run. They were the last to abandon the Argoed field and behind them they left their dying to be slaughtered ruthlessly by hands of the invaders.

The Torenthi army seemed too occupied with their scavenging through the mass of bodies that lay upon the ground to pursue the stragglers who managed to escape. A few hundred warriors reached the Dancing Stones to find their camps abandoned, their tents and supplies ravaged and in disarray. A few men ambled about looking for any small necessity— a bite to eat or a scrap of bandage would have helped to ease the pain of wounds and an empty stomach— but then, finding neither, they scattered onto the Iomaire Plain. Some would head to their villages and homes to get their people out that very night. Others with more substantial keeps would fortify their walls and ready their people against an enemy that was on the verge of gutting the heart out of the once fertile pasturelands of Iomaire. Earl Muir gathered those stragglers remaining at camp, urging them to move out, for to stay would most certainly mean death before the dawn light would appear in the eastern sky. A time that seemed so very far away, now that the sun had abandoned them and the moon, in shame, refused to show its face.

The wounded soldiers of Gwynedd formed up in small groups and limped their way south-by- southwest. Their goal was the walled city of Grecotha, a city defendable to the bitter end. Yet that refuge at their pace was three days away, and few had hope of ever seeing that civilized academic refuge again. Faith and Hope carried them forward; if they just could force one foot in front of the other, then the other foot in front of that, they just might survive to see the morning light. The knights of Lendour stayed on the plains, resting their weary mounts until the very last surviving men were well away. Then as full darkness fell, still without moonlight, they stumbled south hoping to protect the backs of the men ahead of them. They had not been set upon by the Torenthi in the dark, but they daren’t be lax in their retreat.

The Cynfyn brothers had said nothing to one another for nearly an hour after leaving the Dancing Stones at their back. They were disheartened yet determined to be vigilant if defence was needed. The sound of horse's hooves pounding the road brought swords out once more from their scabbards. But the sound came closer from the direction ahead of them and not from behind. It rattled their nerves to see six riders racing out of the dark to rein in directly before the ragged and stained pendant of Lendour. The men, all young, were out of breath; their warhorses puffed out steam from flared nostrils as the riders greeted the Lendour’s earl.

“Who comes forth? What news have you?” Sir Artimus challenged, pushing his destrier to intercept the six riders.

“We come from the King on an urgent quest. Can you tell us if the Torenthi have taken the Dancing Stones and the Iomaire road going north?” yelled a young man whom Washburn recognized.

“Krispin, are you mad! There is nothing left behind us that is worth the risk of your lives!” exclaimed the Knight Captain.

“Aye, but there is,” countered the younger man. “To save my father, to save my King, I am determined to take the risk. We are headed for the Keep of Ainslie. Rhylen says he has a Portal there, one that he was assured was functional when you were all there this morning!” Krispin declared, hesitating a little at the mention of magic to be used. “Rhylen can take us through to Rhemuth. There is a Healer within the capital. We’re going to get her; it is the only way the king or my father will survive.”

“A Healer in Rhemuth? Are you sure? I have known of no Healer there for over a decade.” Washburn thought for moment of Lord Jacuth, who had perished in a fire at his estates so many years before. He knew of no other Healers in Gwynedd. The captain spurred his mount forward to head the youths off from the folly of their quest.

“Lord Drummond has said there is,” Sir Krispin claimed, giving a wary eye of silence to the men who followed him. “She is a lady-in-waiting to the Dowager Queen of Gwynedd. The lady is no longer young, but I know she will come. For the survival of the King, for Drummond and for MacAthan, she will come!”

“Whoa, son, riding to Ainslie will be an impossible journey,” Muir cautioned, bringing his steed close to the younger MacAthan. “Do not waste your lives on such a hazardous quest. If it is a lady that you seek, you dare not bring her back the way you came, and the nearest Portal that I know of is at Grecotha. We are days away from that destination.”

“Aye, it is to Grecotha that we… that Rhylen has promised to bring us back. With luck, we will ride out from there and meet with the king's men on the road in no more than a day.”

The young MacAthan turned to one of his riders, a man even younger than himself. Washburn recognized Rhylen Ainslie under a dented helm. “Rhylen, are you aware that you are now the Baron of Ainslie?” Washburn interjected. “I know of your father’s death, and I am sorry for it. He was a brave man and did his very best to defend the crown. I know you are as loyal as he, but do not attempt this. Behind us, the enemy is free to roam the land. They may be spreading out even now to slaughter any stragglers they find. Your keep will already be retaken. And most certainly a private Portal such as the one you seek will be warded, possibly even trapped, and if it is discovered it will be destroyed.”

“Aye, it is warded,” said the younger man, coming abreast to Krispin’s horse. “With my father gone, I am the only one left who can release the ward. I assure you, the enemy will not have guessed that it is there. It is my duty to see MacAthan through to Rhemuth. For the king, I can do no other greater task.”

“Then you’ll need help…” Washburn began to offer, thinking the four riders with the young Deryni Baron and royal knight would not be enough. But he was cut short by Sir Krispin.

“Our smaller group will slip past the enemy lines far easier than greater numbers could,” Krispin claimed before he turned to plead with the Earl of Lendour. “My Lord Lendour, I beg of you, go forward, find the Haldanes, do all that you are able to keep them alive until we can bring a Healer to them, on the morrow.”

The strain of responsibility was showing equally on the faces of the eighteen-year-old knight and the sixteen-year-old baron. Muir admired both men for their conviction, but he worried that young Ainslie, having just lost his father, was accepting a burden far too great for one Deryni so young. “If there is a chance, as you say, then you will need another Deryni, for you alone, Lord Ainslie, can not make so many Portal jumps as would be required after the exertions of this day. And what of that head wound that I see you have?” Muir asked, pushing for the young baron to see reason even if Krispin did not. “I insist you let my brother join you. On a task this important, you must not fail.”

Rhylen looked at Krispin for confirmation. A tentative nod came from the knight accepting the Earl’s request. “Very well, then. Sir Washburn, you have proved to me your loyalty this last day. I would be honored to have you join our expedition.”

The Deryni Knight Captain accepted his new mission without hesitation. “Sir Thomas, trade with me that old Torenthi nag of a war horse you gained in the field when yours went down. If we have to leave our horses at the keep, I will not leave a quality Lendour stallion for the hands of the devils to abuse.”

The men grinned when the huge black warhorse nickered as if in agreement. “Shadow-Night appears to be grateful, my lord,” Sir Thomas said as they exchanged mounts.

“Hah!” Washburn exclaimed. “He is just glad to have a lighter rider upon his back.”

“Tell me this before you go,” Muir asked as his brother changed mounts. “Who do I find ahead of me? How well is the king and council?”

“For His Majesty, it is a close thing. He was alive when Lord Drummond bid me to get the Healer,” the young MacAthan said. “My father is down, Lord Drummond was little better. The Royal Prince and the Duke of Cassan are both injured but still able to ride and keep the host moving toward Grecotha. As for the Earl of Eastmarch, he was wounded, but not so greatly. At nightfall, he left in an attempt to draw the enemy away from the king. To that effort, he led his levies of Eastmarch and the remainder of Marley’s forces east toward Lochalyn Castle.” Krispin looked over his shoulder into the darkness of the east, in the direction Sighere Howell had gone. “Before he left the king’s side, he sent scouts ahead to warn the villagers of Lochalyn to evacuate to the castle and to warn the Eastmarch steward of the likelihood of an attack. The Eastmarch stronghold has been refortified in recent years to defend against a possible siege. With Marbury taken, it will be the safest place for the folk of Eastmarch to go. Sighere promised he would harass the Torenthi as best he could, and if necessary hold his castle if they are besieged.”

Washburn nodded in agreement, as he settled on the lighter warhorse, “Lockalyn’s walls can hold for a time, so long as the full brunt of the Pretender’s wrath is not focused there. We need to learn what Imre’s intentions are. Will he overrun our retreat before we reach Grecotha, or will he fortify himself in Eastmarch and Iomaire? It does not take much imagination to know he will not be satisfied with holding just the east. He is not just after land for his son, he wants Nygel’s crown.”

“That is why our quest must succeed!” Krispin avowed. “Lord Lendour, I trust you to see to His Majesty. I’ve heard Deryni can ease the injured and even postpone death.”

“I’m not a Healer, Sir Krispin,” Muir said, not sure if the human lord knew about the rarity of the Healing gift.

“He understands,” Rhylen interjected. “We’ll bring the Healer. I am certain God has not abandoned us so thoroughly that we will not find the path to save our anointed king.”

Washburn said a prayer under his breath that it would be so. But after this day, he had his doubts that God would put out a helping hand at this late hour. Others were likely thinking the same. That being so, they readily accepted his addition to their small number.

“When you reach Grecotha, seek out Prince Jasher and inform him of the day's accounting. Your way of travel will very likely get you there well before the fastest herald could ride there from the field. If he can be persuaded to meet us upon the road, that would be well. Oh, and it might be helpful if you find a man named Kent at the stables. Tell him ‘The Hart needs to fly’ and he will give you the fastest mounts in Grecotha to ride out upon,” Muir offered. “May your mission be realized!”

“And yours, Lord Lendour,” both young men said with a nod. They prepared to take their leave. Washburn hung back for just a moment. “See that they get to that Portal. Watch yourselves,” his brother cautioned. “The road may appear quiet, but I would not put it past Imre to have retaken the Keep if just to assure his back is covered. He will not want to make that mistake again.”

“I agree.” Filled with a sense of renewed purpose, Washburn grinned a dangerous smile, and then turned his Torenthi mount to gallop after the riders going north. “So it seems we go full circle,” he quipped as he caught up with them. “Friends, as we did last night, we ride to the Keep of Ainslie. This time, however, I suggest we give the Dancing Stones a wide berth.”

____________________________________

The repeated ride to Ainslie on this second night was a seemingly far longer ride than it had been the night before. Under the vigilant watch of the lead rider, they managed to skirt around scattered warbands that were heading out into the plains. All seven men kept an eye on the dark landscape, but all were exhausted, not outwardly wounded, but beaten, bruised and bodily sore, and above all, disheartened. Nevertheless, they persevered in the hopes that what they did this night would save their beloved King. In the four hour ride, the men traded off who had point and rear, the others found what rest they could in the saddle. Baron Rhylen Ainslie held the point at the last, leading his small group off to the side, onto a path that circled to the back of his shell of a home. The men now were fully alert. In the stillness of the night, they could all hear men-at-arms singing and jeering from the walls above them. From the rising of the new moon, which had been so much more of a sliver the night before, they knew they were past the midnight hour, and still the enemy was celebrating their victory.

A soft whistle sounded in the brush ahead of them, and Rhylen put up a hand halting the men as he went forward alone. When he came back, a young pair of boys in black capes came with him. “This is my brother Aidan and his friend Josh. He tells me the Torenthi came back after dark and, as we had expected, they have reclaimed their camp along the walls. Aidan says he has been watching them, and he says they were pounding on the tower door earlier with hammers, he does not know if they breached the tower, but as yet no one seems to have moved inside. We should still be able to use the passage, which will lead us directly into the tower base. That will be where we will find the Transfer Portal. If we stay quiet, the enemy up there will never know we were here.”

“Sounds good,” Sir Krispin said in a whisper. The seven men dismounted. The faint grunts of stiffness were louder than the soft clink of mail armor. The boys looked around worriedly even though the sounds did not travel under the tree cover. Wash secured his sword and his dagger in readiness upon his belt. He took a long swallow of wine from the skin that was handed to him before passing it on. The red libation warmed the insides from the cold midnight air, an unusually cool night with still two weeks of summer remaining. Rhylen gave a word of instruction to his brother to tell his mother to get their people east over the mountain pass, to Carbury along the north coast of the Purple March. They should claim shelter there until further word could be sent to them. The boys agreed, knotting the reins of the war horses together before being lifted up into the saddles of two of them. Silently, they disappeared into the trees. As they left, Washburn was sure he saw a tear on young Aidan Ainslie’s cheek; his brother must have informed him of their father’s fate.

“Will your family be safe?” Washburn asked, concerned as he watched the boys and horses disappear.

“Aye, they will. My mother knows the trails west. My people should be gone from here by day break.”

“Very well,” Washburn said, a little reassured. “It seems your father, God rest his soul, knew how to protect his family. I am sorry for you and your brothers’ loss.”

The young baron of just a few hours ducked his head, fighting back grief he knew he daren’t let out. After a moment, he responded with family pride, “For three generations the Ainslies have been secure in this keep. Secure from the politics of the early years of this new regime, that is. I fear my father nor his father ever considered that Torenthi would want a foothold in the Rhendall Mountains.” The youth shook his head. Three days ago he had had to watch his home burn from the safety of the very spot they stood upon now. “So many Torenthi. How did they manage the support of ten thousand men, for I swear that must have been their numbers on the field yesterday?”

“Nearly that many, I am thinking too,” the Knight Captain affirmed. “Imre has had eight years since the death of his father to plan his strategy. Eight years to rally his forces and earn the backing of the royalty of Torenth. When our beloved King Uthyr died three years back, Imre must have ruthlessly concluded that our treaty, the one signed between Uthyr and King Arion, was void. Damn our ignorance, too many good men were lost today!”

“We should have laid siege to the Argoed Valley, hemmed them in, and cut off their supplies,” Krispin muttered under his breath as if it were treason to say such a thing, yet it was something that he had to utter aloud to clear his conscience.

“There is nothing we can do about that now, young knight,” Washburn said, careful to hide his own ire. “Remember and learn, for this is not over. Just now, we need to see to the Haldane’s survival. We have a job ahead of us. Rhylen, lead us on.” Wash nodded for all to follow Ainslie from the trees to a rock face far beneath the keep tower. Between two jagged outcroppings, the men discovered a dark space where the entrance to a tunnel began.

They climbed in the dimness of a lone torch over rough cut stairs. No one said anything when Rhylen had scooped up a torch from the ground, presumably from where it had been snuffed out by the escaping household just days before. With a mere whisper the young Deryni set a flame to the blackened stick. Not knowing the men around him well, Washburn did not offer up his hand fire, afraid that such an act would topple the tenuous acceptance of magic from the human warriors among them. As it was, each of them would have to tolerate the arcane when they came upon the Portal. No reason to make men more skittish before that necessary action.

It was a long climb when at last they reached a grate in the side of the tunnel. It was low, only three feet high. There was little light coming from beyond the grate, as it appeared to be covered by several crates of goods on the opposite side. Rhylen doused his torch with a soft word and placed it in a bracket high on the wall. Then joining Krispin, the two men listen for any disturbance beyond the blocking crates. Wash approved when Rhylen did not attempt to open his shields and seek out if the enemy was near. It would have been a risk they needn't take if a Deryni enemy had made himself sensitive to his surroundings. When the two men were sure the tower was clear, they put their shoulders to the metal bars and shoved the grate with the obstructing boxes aside. Rhylen, as the smallest among them, shimmied through the space; he heaved the goods further away to open the grate more. A creak of hinges, loud in the silence, made everyone freeze. They held their breaths, fearing the enemy could easily hear the thundering sound of heartbeats under chain mail. Yet silence remained beyond the door at the top of a stone stair that curved along the wall. When the men crawled out of the tunnel, they could see that the light in the room came through a hole in the door. The hole was where the lock should have been. Someone had gone to great effort to break in. A crate labeled ‘Vezaire Port’ that rested nearest the bottom stair lay broken open, its contents gone. Ignoring that, Rhylen walked to the center floor where a square stone was set, a stone no different than the other square stones that made up the tower base. Relief came over his features as he pointed to the stone below his feet. Wash knelt there and felt a surge of power sting his fingers; the Portal was warded. He would not be able to use it. He looked askance at Rhylen.

“There is no time to remove the warding, not if we could have visitors at any moment,” the youth whispered. “You will have to trust me to get us all through. I can take two at a time.” Understanding, Washburn stepped away, nodding for Krispin and one man-at-arms to go first. The four remaining watched as the young Deryni stood behind the two men as they arranged themselves centered on the stone. The Deryni Baron placed each of his hands over their eyes. The two bodies visibly eased... and then in silence... they disappeared. Gone were all three from the gaze of those who watched.

Two of the men left in the tower room took in a sharp intake of breath. Wash was worried he would have trouble with them now that they had seen magic in use. But the third man had more experience and tapped their shoulders, having them watch the splintered hole in the door at the top of the stairs to be sure no one looked in.

The Baron of Argoed reappeared on the Portal stone while the others had their backs to him. He had taken off his helm to brush away dried blood from his brow. Wash felt sorry for the young man, for a head wound could not make the repetition of several Portal jumps easy. It could not be helped; without this young Deryni, they would be stranded here, and here in the heart of the enemy was not where any Gwyneddan wished to be.

Washburn pointed to the experienced soldier and one of the skittish ones to go with the baron next. He figured he would be able to assist Rhylen with his fatigue on the last and final jump. After the three disappeared, there was nothing to do but wait. Washburn was sizing up his companion, a man named Vince who was looking a little shaken now that there was no option but to be the next to submit to the transport. The captain inched closer to the man, thinking it easiest to take control of Vince now, before Rhylen reappeared. Just then, both men turned to the sound of rustling from above. Someone was at the tower door.

“Hallottam volna valamit, esküszöm” [I heard something, I swear it], grunted a harsh voice of a drunken man who shoved the thick door wide. Both Washburn and Vince leaped to stand with their backs against the stone stair in the shadow of the new light streaming in from the open doorway far above their heads. They watched the shadows of two men coming down. The shadow of weapons could be seen in each man’s hand. Wash guessed they were those bedeviled crossbows, primed and at the ready. “Hallottam volna valamit,” the Torenthi repeated in the guttural language of the invaders. Washburn listened and knew what the man said. The Cynfyns of generations ago had spoken that language, and Washburn’s father had made certain that his two sons had learned a passable amount of words to get by if ever they had the need.

“[That would be a cat chasing rats, if you ask me],” said the second man, who stumbled down a step.

“[Hey! Watch where you point that thing! Don’t need to have survived a glorious battle only to be shot in the back by a friend.]”

“[Hah! Serve you right if I did! Stealing that amethyst off that bishop’s hand. I’m the one who got to him first; the ring should have been mine.]”

“[You got his cross. I made the final blow, it be only right that I claimed his ring,]” the man asserted, reveling in their reprehensible deed. Wash could sense Vince tightening his grasp on his dagger and gritting his teeth in anger. He was a little surprised that Vince got the gist of the conversation going on above them. Perhaps there was more to Vince than he first imagined. Feeling anger himself, he nonetheless signaled Vince to hold. The two murderers were more than halfway down the steps. Even though the men were drunk, Washburn’s and Vince’s odds against those crossbows weren’t good enough to take them on in these close quarters. He had a different solution. The captain lifted his own dagger, steadying his mind on the ruby embedded in the hilt. In the dimness of the light, the Deryni’s blue eyes unfocused. His mind sought forth to touch the mind of one of the drunkards on the stair.

Exasperated, the lower man grunted. “[What? You afraid of the dark? Might be there's some more port down here or a barrel of ale.]”

“[That bottle must have been bad…]” the second guard muttered just before the sound of retching gagged his throat.

“Khadasa!” exclaimed the other.

Washburn was straining his powers to control the one drunken man while reaching out to influence the second. Sweat touched his eyes, yet in his trance he did not blink. He felt certain he could convince the drunkards to leave before they discovered the two Gwyneddans standing so near. If it had not been for the whoosh of displaced air, felt rather than heard, Washburn was sure he would have successfully turned the two Torenthi away. But there, suddenly, stood Baron Ainslie centered in the spotlight streaming down from the open door. The lower man on the stair saw the baron’s face even as Washburn mentally convinced the upper man that he saw no one. It wasn’t good enough. The one enemy, free of Deryni influence, let forth a shout; he brought his weapon before him and let the bolt of the crossbow fly.

Washburn’s instincts answered the need. With a well-trained shove, the deadly dart flew wide then thudded into a crate of goods against the far wall. Rhylen was diving to the stone, for the second enemy no longer under control saw the baron before him and questioned nothing by bringing his crossbow to bear. Again a bolt chimed in its release, and again Wash pushed it far from its target, but this time his focus was his undoing. A body jumped towards him from the side, the crush of a blunt-ended crossbow slammed against his helm. There was a tussle over him even as he was knocked to the ground. He tried to bring his dagger to bear, but his arm was trapped beneath him, making it impossible. He rolled to his back just in time to see Vince stab the Torenthi through the heart. The enemy’s eyes bulged open and blood filled the man’s mouth. His attacker fell away from Washburn’s vision, which blurred as Wash tried to stand. Again there was another tussle, and Wash sensed that Rhylen had ambushed the second man who had stumbled down the stairs too late to defend his friend.

“We need to go, now!” yelled the youth, no longer needing to adhere to silence.

“Coming! Captain?” Vince yelled even as he grabbed at the dead Torenthi’s hand to pull off the stolen bishop's ring. He would have gone for the cross around the other man's neck too, but for the sound of footfalls echoing through the door above them. Washburn braced his feet to finally stand, his head throbbing from the exertion.

“The archbishop will want this returned,” claimed Vince, coming up beside him. “Need to get out of here!” he declared, helping the captain forward, seemingly having forgotten his fear of magic.

Wash managed the few feet to the center of the Portal square, stumbling into the baron, who quickly put a hand over the more experienced Deryni’s pair of eyes. “You must trust me!” Wash heard Rhylen say, knowing he had to drop his shields to give control to the younger Deryni. In desperate need with the enemy rushing the door above, Rhylen’s rash control swept over his open mind too forcefully, blacking the captain out as the three made an abrupt Portal jump to Rhemuth.

That's why I got so impatient. This is a wonderful story Laurna. I wonder about Vince though, is he all that he seems? Hmmm

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Let God rise up, let his enemies be scattered; let those who hate him flee before him.As smoke is driven away, so drive them away; as wax melts before the fire, let the wicked perish before God.(Psalm 68 vv1-2)

I can hardly wait for the next chapter of this exciting story. If only the king had laid seige to Imre. But I am sure you have a plan for getting them out of it. Tuesdays are now exciting days as I get to read the next chapter

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"Thanks be to God there are still, as there always have been and always will be, more good men than evil in this world, and their cause will prevail." Brother Cadfael's Penance

Thank you, ladies! It has been a busy week. You will be happy to know that chapter four is complete and ready to post, but I am sorry to say it will need to wait until tuesday. I am not a cruel person, I promise. Now chapter five on the other hand is a mess. That is what I am trying to clean up right now. I hope to have it back together by early next week.

Oh, and I am listening to the music Evie posted for Adsum Domine* to help encourage Chapter five along.